


The Life of Umbrellas

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: beggars would ride [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Future Fic, Pregnancy, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform, girl!Sam, non-sekrit incest baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-30
Updated: 2010-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-08 13:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an accident that Dean even finds out when he does. Of course, the whole thing is technically an accident, so that shouldn't surprise him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Life of Umbrellas

It's an accident that Dean even finds out when he does. Of course, the whole thing is technically an accident, so that shouldn't surprise him.

After a run-in with some vampires that almost ends very badly, Dean drags Sam off to the nearest bar for a few beers and a plate of chili cheese fries. Sam looks spooked the whole time, her eyes wide and her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"What?" he says, shoving another three fries into his mouth and washing them down with some PBR. She's acting like she's never killed a spider, let alone a nest of vamps, and it's getting on his nerves.

"Nothing." She gives a little shrug that turns into a shiver, and he wonders if maybe she's coming down with something. Could be why she's nursing a glass of ginger ale while he's doing the two shots of Jack he ordered for them. "I forgot that surviving the apocalypse doesn't guarantee that we won't get taken out by some random vampires in east bumfuck."

Dean shifts to her side of the booth and slides an arm around her shoulders. "You wanna get out of here?" He pitches his voice low and rough, puts his mouth up against her ear, and feels her shiver again, though this time he doesn't think it's because she's cold.

"Yeah, okay."

She drives them back to the motel and laughs into his mouth when he presses her up against the wall beside the door.

"Come on," she says, pushing him back towards the bed. "I don't think you're up for doing this standing up right now."

"I'm up," he protests, pressing her hand to his erection; he knows she expects it, and there's the goofy grin he was hoping for. He strips her out of her clothes and topples her back against the pillows, his mouth open and eager against her warm, soft skin, and then all the beer he's had makes its presence felt. "Hold that thought," he says, and it's his turn to grin a goofy grin at the sight of her lying in bed waiting for him like his favorite Penthouse Forum dream. "I gotta take a leak."

"Maybe you should brush your teeth while you're in there," she says, crawling under the covers and breaking the fantasy.

He takes off his boots and his flannel on the way to the bathroom, nerves humming with a good buzz and the promise of sex. He must be drunker than he thought, because he fumbles with the cap for the toothpaste, and then watches, befuddled, as it drops down between the vanity and the garbage pail. Grumbling under his breath, Dean leans over to pick it up, and the box in the trash catches his eye. Toothpaste cap forgotten (and she'll bitch him out for that later, when there's toothpaste all over everything in her makeup bag), he rifles through the pail, finds the white stick with its pink plus sign, and beneath that, another box and another stick, with another pink plus sign. He drops the boxes but keeps hold of the sticks, the little pink symbols taunting him.

He stomps back into the bedroom, evidence in hand. "What the hell is this?" His head is still muzzy from the alcohol, so his voice might be a little louder than he planned.

She sits up, eyes widening and knees drawing up when she sees what he's holding. "You know I peed on those, right?"

Dean's nose wrinkles automatically but he says, "I've handled worse." He looks at her, trying to figure out what she's thinking. Usually, he can read her like a book, but sometimes it feels like the book is in Hindi and he's got no translator. "I thought we were done with secrets."

She looks down at her hands, then up at his face, her eyes clear and steady as she meets his gaze. "I was going to tell you." He raises an eyebrow. "After sex. You're usually in a much better mood." He's usually asleep, but he decides not to point that out, since she already teases him unmercifully about being a stereotype. Her mouth twists in a half-smile and she looks away again. "Not like I could keep it a secret for long."

The sharp clutch of fear releases in Dean's belly for a second and then returns, though the fear this time is completely different. He takes a deep breath, and then another, willing himself not to hyperventilate. To give himself a minute or two to absorb what neither of them has actually said, he goes back into the bathroom, throws the sticks back into the garbage, and washes his hands. He splashes some water on his face, and wishes he hadn't had that second shot. Or maybe that he'd had a couple more. He grips the corners of the sink and breathes through the panic threatening to swamp him.

"Dean?" Sam is in the doorway; she's pulled her shirt back on and has her arms folded across her chest. "I only did the tests this afternoon."

"And they're accurate?" He leans back against the sink, letting it hold him up because his legs feel stupidly weak.

"I still need to see a doctor, but probably, yeah. False positives aren't very common." She takes a step, and he hates that she's nervous, unsure of his reaction. She puts a hand on his arm. "You're not gonna hyperventilate, are you?"

Dean cocks his head and decides to be honest. "I'm thinking about it." She laughs and wraps her arms around him, tucking her face into his shoulder. He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to the top of her head. It takes him a couple of seconds, but then they're breathing in time. "I thought we were pretty careful," he says, shifting so that she can stand between his legs while he perches on the edge of the sink. He holds her close; the only safe place in the world for her is right here, and he never wants to let her go.

She shrugs, forcing him to loosen his grip, never as willing to let him protect her as he'd like. "Not as careful as we thought." She laughs, the manic edge to it making Dean tighten his arms around her. "There was that night right after we sent Lucifer back to hell."

There were a few nights after that, he thinks, and a few mornings and afternoons, too, when all they did was stay in bed and fuck, celebrating that they weren't dead and the world hadn't ended, but he nods like he knows which one she's talking about. "That was a good night." They're all good nights in his book.

"We're, like, the poster children for poor impulse control," she says, "and part of that lucky twelve percent, I guess."

"Lucky twelve percent?"

"Of people who get pregnant even while using condoms."

"Why do you even know that?" She gives him a sharp look that says, Don't be an idiot more clearly than any words could. "Okay, I guess it makes sense that you would. Freak."

"Dean." There's a flash of pain across her face, hidden so quickly he wonders if he imagined it.

Then it hits him again, what he's just said. What they've _done_. "Shit."

She laughs again, but it sounds more like a sob this time, and her voice quavers just enough to be noticeable. "Yeah."

"We're not too far from Ames," he says. "You think that clinic is still in the same place?"

She blinks at him, confused, like she doesn't remember the first time he took her to Planned Parenthood to get the pill. "I--I can look it up."

He rubs her back, trying to be comforting. "If you like it there, we could stay." His memories of the city are vague--mainly he remembers patching Sam up after the werewolf hunt, and then their trip to the clinic, which was probably more embarrassing for her than it was for him at the time. He tries not to think about how fucked up things were when they were growing up, how they can't let this kid grow up that way.

"No," she says, slowly, confused look on her face giving way to one of understanding. "I'd rather be someplace warm." He's not real sure how these things work, but a quick count tells him that she's due sometime next winter, so warmer probably is better. He doesn't want to drive to the hospital through a blizzard if he doesn't have to.

"Okay." He kisses her again, slow and deep, her confusion suddenly making sense. "Did you really think I meant--"

"I--Maybe? Maybe that's the smart thing to do." She sniffs. "Our lives ain't exactly cut out for babies, even without the genetic gamble we're taking."

"We'll jump off that bridge if we come to it." He presses his lips to hers gently, more like an exchange of breath than anything else. "I thought you wanted a baby. Didn't you wake me up one night to tell me that?"

"I wanted a lot of things, Dean." That phantom flash of pain is in her voice now, making his throat tight.

"Well, we saved the world, so you're gonna get to have some of 'em." He straightens up, herds her back to the bed and climbs in beside her, shucking his clothes quickly and efficiently. "And maybe this is one I can give you." He kisses her breathless and when he tugs on the hem of her shirt she lets him raise it over her head. He tosses it to the floor on top his own clothes, and starts kissing his way down her body. "Dude, you might finally bust out of an A-cup," he says, teasing her tits with his tongue.

She cuffs the back of his head, even as she arches up into his mouth. "Ha ha. You're so funny. "

"I'm just saying. You're the one who's always complaining."

This time, she reaches down and curls her fingers around his cock to shut him up. It's good--it's always good; it's him and Sam and they've been doing this longer than he'd like to admit--but he doesn't want to be distracted. He can keep the fear at bay if he can just keep her here. (He decides to ignore that this is what got them into trouble in the first place.)

"We'll save some money on condoms, at least," she says, and he laughs against her breastbone, the beat of her heart steady under his mouth.

His hands curl over the flare of her hips, rough and dark against skin that never sees the sun, and he brushes his lips across the soft curve of her belly, breathing in the smell of her--sweat and lotion and Sam. He looks up to see her watching him. Her eyes are bright, but he thinks they're happy tears, and she doesn't let them fall.

"A baby," he says, like they haven't been talking about it for the past ten minutes.

She laughs and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah."

"_Our_ baby." He kisses her belly gently, reverently.

She tugs him back up so she can capture his mouth in a hot, wet mess of a kiss. She's wearing that goofy grin again when she lets him go, and the panic recedes a little further, at least for the moment.

"Yeah."

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "The Life of Umbrellas" by Rachel Dacus


End file.
